


If a spiral, Up or Down

by AutumnHobbit



Series: I'm in paradise with Dad [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Brother Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Indirect Suicide Attempt, Probably-More-Than-Canon-Typical Language, So much Angst the Angst likely no longer matters, father-son feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 17:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnHobbit/pseuds/AutumnHobbit
Summary: Bruce.Where the hell was he?Dick had no idea, really. What Bruce would do in a situation like this. Would he come home? Would he run away and never come back, decide himself unworthy of Gotham or Alfred or Dick?Was he even still alive?"I have to suit up," Dick said suddenly, knowing the moment it left his mouth that it was what had to be done. "Bruce is still out there. I need to find him." To do what, he didn't know.________Sequel to my fic,I'm in paradise with Dad.





	If a spiral, Up or Down

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhhhh
> 
> i'm not gonna lie this probably sucks because i have spent two hours christmas evening sitting and filling in plotholes and writing furiously bc some small, evil part of me wants to just drop this like "TAKE THIS LOSERS MERRY CHRISTMAS I RUINED EVERYTHING AHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAA"
> 
> so. um.
> 
> merry christmas. lol.

Dick felt as if he could barely breathe. After he'd finally run out of tears to cry, he'd stayed numbly beside the clock, just slumped there, face pressed against the smooth wooden surface, blinking aching eyes dully. The minutes ticked by, loud and empty, more and more, until it had been over an hour since Bruce had left.

"Master Richard?”

Dick slowly lifted his head, and turned to look at Alfred, who was standing in the doorway, looking concerned and confused. At the sight of the boy's expression, Alfred's face drained of all color. "What's..."

He barely made it through the first word before the phone rang, echoing through the whole house.

Dick ran. His brace thunked against the floor, and his leg was screaming, but he snatched the phone off its base. It was Commissioner Gordon. His finger fumbled on the button, but his hands were oddly steady as he raised the phone to his ear. "Yes?" He ventured, feeling as if he was holding a live grenade with the pin pulled.

"The Joker's been attacked," Gordon half-yelled, over sounds of chaos, shouting and mechanical whirring and gears grinding and feet running. "He's.....it's permanent."

Dick said nothing. He couldn't. His heart was throbbing dully in his chest and he felt very cold.

"Where is Batman? I can't deal with these crowds, this is going to take days to handl---"

Dick hung up. He turned to Alfred, who was waiting, hands clasped and worrying at each other. He hadn't played with his hands in decades.

"He's done it." Dick said, tongue stiff. "He paralyzed the Joker."

Alfred's jaw worked into a tight clamp. He pressed harder at his knuckles.

Dick knew that this was a big thing, something that could easily bring Gotham crashing down in final death throes. The Joker was a mass-murdering psychopath, but he did manage to catch everyone off-guard enough to prevent any real, systematic destruction. Without him, a power vacuum would almost undoubtedly develop, one that Gordon and his men couldn't handle, one that could kill thousands. Dick knew all this.

And yet, he could barely bring himself to feel anything. Except a faint, insane anger. Because if Bruce had done this sooner, Jason might still be alive.

Bruce.

Where the hell was he?

Dick had no idea, really. What Bruce would do in a situation like this. Would he come home? Would he run away and never come back, decide himself unworthy of Gotham or Alfred or Dick?

Was he even still alive?

"I have to suit up," Dick said suddenly, knowing the moment it left his mouth that it was what had to be done. "Bruce is still out there. I need to find him." To do what, he didn't know.

"Of course," Alfred said, and without another word the two of them marched into the Cave.

Minutes flew by in a blur as Dick suited up, somehow unsurprised as Alfred also donned a bulletproof vest and a leather jacket, retrieving one of his shotguns and placing a pistol in a hip holster, along with plenty of ammunition. He was also unsurprised when they got into one of the other vehicles, a nondescript black suv, with Alfred at the wheel.

They drove in what Dick would have described on anyone else as a manic fury, but Alfred was silent and tight-lipped and calculated, making each turn with precision and grace despite the speed. Dick slumped back in the passenger seat and tried not to think about what they were likely to find.

Arkham was in chaos when they pulled into a shaded alley between two of the buildings. Police cars and ambulances were veritably piled in front of the door, sirens wailing, lights flashing, and the shouts were audible even from this distance. It had been overcast all day, but now a dense fog had begun to descend, coating the air in a fine mist, obscuring the large brick structure of the asylum.

"Where do we start?" Dick asked, as Alfred yanked the key from the ignition and shoved it into his pocket.

"I daresay you would know better than I would, Master Dick," Alfred said, serious, but with just a slight twinge to his voice that made Dick look at his eyes. He was shocked to discover, when he looked, that Alfred looked uncertain. Uncertain of what Bruce would have done, uncertain of where to look for the man he'd raised, and nearly brought to breaking by that fact.

"...If." Dick swallowed hard. "If he were....if he were alright, I….I think he would have come home. He wouldn't have---" Dick clenched his eyes shut, soldiered on. "He might think he's unworthy of us after doing this. But if he _were_ alright, he would have come back at least long enough to leave a note or...or _something._ If he's..." his voice faltered, "if he's hurt...he would try to get away as quickly as he could. Even if he were suicidal enough to want to get caught, he still wouldn't, to...to protect the rest of us."

"Agreed," Alfred said quietly. When Dick had no more rumination forthcoming, Alfred said, "It would seem the wisest course of action is to sweep the property for anywhere Master Bruce could have hidden himself or attempted to escape."

 _If he made it that far_ , Dick thought, closing his eyes tightly. But he nodded.

With that settled, as soon as they had their earpieces in, they split up and took opposite sides of the island. It was difficult to evade the police, officials, and press that were practically swarming the place, but necessary; they were nowhere near ready to deal with the fallout of Bruce’s action, especially when they didn't know where he was or what condition he was in.

Dick somehow felt that there was no way Bruce would hide in the asylum if he was at all capable of moving, because it was too obvious a hiding spot. But Alfred still took that side, mingling with the crowd of black-vested police and FBI agents in order to search. Dick, meanwhile, took the other section of the island, the sewage treatment plant and the access bridge.

Somehow, Dick also knew that even if he _was_ vaguely suicidal, Bruce wouldn't hide in a sewer with an open injury unless he had no other options, and a sweep of the nearly empty facility confirmed that suspicion. No sign of Bruce anywhere. Dick moved on towards the guard shack for the bridge, beginning to feel desperate.

"Nightwing, this is Penny One," his earpiece buzzed. Dick raised two fingers to the device and pressed it. "Here. Anything?"

"Unfortunately not," Alfred said, and Dick could hear a familiar tension seeping into the butler's voice. "The Commissioner apparently was given custody of the security tapes, but the cameras had been disabled beforehand. I'm afraid we'll have no help from the police department."

Dick swallowed. "Understood. The sewage plant was a no. I'm on to the guard shack and then the bridge. I'll keep you apprised."

"Understood.”

There was a pause, and Dick felt a chill. Alfred hadn’t signed off, but he wasn’t speaking, and Dick could hear his breath very faintly crackling over the line. “A?” He asked, trying not to let the fear seep into his voice too much.

“They found blood. A substantial amount of it. And a handgun. Two bullets and four casings.”

Dick felt vaguely sick to his stomach. The blood had to be Bruce’s, and if all four bullets had hit their mark---

They needed to find him. Fast.

“We’ll get him back, A. I’m almost to the guard shack. We’ll find him.” _Before it’s too late_. Dick forced the bile that was threatening to climb up his throat back down. He couldn’t stop thinking about Jason’s shredded suit and abandoned locker and empty bedroom and clean tombstone, and all he could think over and over was _not again, not again, please not again---_

“Richard,” Alfred’s voice broke into Dick’s refrain, and Dick gulped to hear the slight tremor in it. “You contact me the _second_ you see any sign of him. Please.”

Dick nodded, aware that Alfred couldn’t see him but also aware that he couldn’t trust himself to say a word. He disconnected the call and took a deep breath through his nose, trying to shove all of the semantics back where they could stay until it was possible to deal with them. Bruce and Alfred needed him. He couldn't break down now.

He kept to the shadows as best he could, feeling exposed and vulnerable wandering around the island in the day---though light was somewhat lacking. But even at a light jog, he made it the half-mile from the sewage plant to the guard shack another quarter mile from the bridge within ten minutes. He also found he was in luck; the only visible workers were two men in neon-colored work vests, talking to two police officers and an FBI agent. He hurried around the courtyard and found his way to the employee entrance to the guard shack. It was standing just slightly open, propped on a chair---a quick glance showed him the lock was likely stiff and so they left the door open for air when the weather was cool. He slowly pushed the door open, as silently as he could manage, in case there were other guards.

The door opened into a short hallway with two doors on either side. He left the outside door half open so as to avoid detection and leave an escape route if needed, and took a light step further in. The lights were on, bathing the hall in a dim, artificial glow that reminded him of hospital lights. He crept forward, glancing carefully through the window of one door---a break room, small, with only a few vending machines, a kitchenette and a table. The lights were off and it was empty. The other door was a storage closet. He opened it and scanned the room quickly. Cleaning supplies, electrical parts in boxes, tools and the like. No sign of recent disturbance. He closed the door again with a soft click that seemed to echo through the whole building.

The observation floor was straight ahead, up a flight of stairs, so he kept going, pausing to make sure it was clear before ducking into the room. It was, like the rest of the building, empty with no sign of disturbance...except for the fact that the guards had clearly left in a hurry. A mug of coffee was lukewarm on the counter in front of the control panel for the gate, and the keys had been left in. There was a radio sitting on a base, turned on to panicked chatter from the security frequency. Dick listened with baited breath, wondering if they were too late; he exhaled softly when he heard no mention of their having found Batman, only repeated updates that finding him was a priority. He glanced at the radio, intending to check what frequency it was set to---being on the security channel might help him avoid them---when he noticed an odd discoloration on the metal casing of the controls. There was a bit of rust scattered across the controls, which clearly hadn’t been replaced since the fifties….but the discoloration near the base was fresher. He traced a gloved fingertip over the smudge. It was half-dried but still tacky. Blood. Unless you looked closely, it would be indistinguishable from the rust stains, and it looked as if there had been more, but it had been wiped---a bit clumsily but efficiently, by a liquid-resistant glove like his own.

Dick’s gaze snapped to the floor instantly, a frantic hope rising in him, but his heart sank when there were no clear bloodstains on the dirty, multiblock beige carpet. Bruce was too smart for that. He must have somehow tamped down on the blood flow before he left.

But still, he had been here, and he had taken a radio to keep apprised of the security guards’ positions. He had to be nearby. He would be too exposed out in the open, and there weren’t more structures to hide in. He had to be close. He _had_ to.

Whirling, Dick half-jogged back down the hall and ducked out of the door, glancing back towards the courtyard where the guards were still talking to the FBI. He whipped his head to the side to look. There was a building that looked to be a warehouse of some sort with a row of storage units on the top floor.

His comm buzzed. He froze, heart pounding, expecting Alfred to speak, but instead, a soft, familiar voice half-rasped, “Dick.”

“Babs!?” He choked out before he could stop himself, clamping a hand over his mouth and cursing violently under his breath as he pressed back against the side of the building, waiting. No one came to investigate, and he could still hear the men talking. “What are you---are you okay? Shouldn’t you be--?”

“I saw what happened on TV,” she cut him off, not unkindly but briskly. He could hear keys clicking. “I know they haven’t found B yet. I can help. The building you’re looking at is a storage warehouse that houses extra equipment for the sewage plant and the asylum, think trucks and heavy equipment and that sort of thing. The top floor is your average conditioned space. There’s an access hatch on the far side of the building that leads down into the maintenance tunnels. It’s all old tech, so theoretically he could get in.” Dick could hear her breath stuttering occasionally as she spoke, whether from pain or exhaustion or emotion he couldn’t tell, but it broke his heart. Both with sympathy and admiration. He knew how much she would want to be out here, and yet she was helping however she could. She really was the best.

“Babs, you are a gift. Thank you,” he gasped, and whipped around, sprinting around the back of the guard shack to make a dash for the warehouse.

She sounded startled in his ear. “You--you’re welcome,” she recovered quickly. “Get him quick. Dad’s gonna start searching in earnest as soon as the Joker’s moved off-island.”

Dick didn’t need reminding. He took the gap between the buildings without slowing, not even bothering to glance in the guards’ direction. He rounded the corner of the building and sprinted through the grass, hoping against hope that he could get to the hatch fast enough---

He caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye, and despite himself, he stopped. Forcing himself to inhale and to stifle the mental scream of _Bruce needs you, stop over-analyzing and move!_ he glanced down through one of the windows, which was nearly covered with condensate. He could just barely see a sliver of light inside the dark warehouse, coming from a side door which was open just a crack.

It could be nothing. Someone might have left it open and it hadn’t been noticed because the equipment was rarely used.

But if it wasn’t….

Cursing under his breath, Dick whipped around and jogged back, looking for a way in. It was easy enough to find a window that had a couple of small panels missing, and he slid his arm in, struggling for a moment before wrenching the whole panel up with an audible screech that made him cringe. He climbed in as quickly and quietly as he could, dropping to his feet on the smooth concrete floor.

The interior was dark and silent in the ringing, echoey way that open spaces always were. It smelled musty and metallic, and he tried not to wrinkle his nose as he took a step forward. In front of him was a large shape, covered in a tarp; probably a utility truck of some type. He stepped slowly forward again. He opened his mouth, but half-closed it, feeling suddenly young and stupid and out of his depth. “Batman?” He finally called, barely above a whisper.

Nothing.

He stepped around the truck, glancing around again. He was squinting; he hadn’t had time to make sure to get his night-vision lenses before leaving the Cave, and the only light was coming from those hazy windows and the near-nonexistent sunlight that was outside in the first place. “Batman?” He called again, the slightest bit louder this time. “Are you here?”

Still no response. He felt his pulse accelerate despite himself. His eyes frantically scanned the floor and his surroundings as his footsteps sped up, while his mind raced even faster. What if this was a wild goose chase and he wandered around here too long, and Bruce was off somewhere else and---

He passed a metal staircase that led up to some sort of scaffold surrounding the interior structure of the building, and he was two steps away from it and nearing some sort of machine when an overpowering stench hit him full-force. Blood. He stopped short, and something crunched under his foot. He glanced down. It was a walkie talkie.

He whirled with a soft gasp, squinting desperately behind him. He heard something quiet that he couldn’t quite identify. It sounded almost like a wheeze.

Dick crossed the distance to the staircase in two strides. As he ducked closer, he could just faintly make out a dark shape, slightly darker than the floor surrounding it, crumpled in a pile beneath the staircase.

“Bruce,” the name escaped him in a heaving, nearly-incoherent exhale as he dropped to his knees hard and scrambled forward, digging a hand under what he _hoped_ was Bruce’s shoulder and tugging him up towards him. His hand slipped across the surface of Bruce’s armor and he shifted so that he was cushioning Bruce with his shoulder, fumbling in a panic to rip his glove off. His hand flew back to Bruce, only to find that the armor was drenched in a lukewarm, slippery substance. Blood. Everywhere. Bruce hadn’t made a sound.

“Bruce!” Dick’s voice was rising in terror, he registered it, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He fumbled around the edges of the cowl, trying to remove it, his bare fingers drifting back for a split-second in shock at how cold Bruce’s cheek was. He finally yanked the damned thing off, and choked back bile yet again because Bruce’s cheeks were practically glowing in the low-light with a ghostly pallor. He threw the filthy thing on the floor and tugged Bruce’s upper body against his thigh so he could halfway prop him up, his hands flying to his neck. “Bruce,” he begged, finding the pulse, but feeling it thready and rapid and erratic, hearing the jagged, quiet gulps Bruce was swallowing. “B, don’t do this to me, buddy, don’t, you _can’t---_ ”

Bruce made a choked sound that was a bit too weak to be a real cough, more of a splutter, and Dick bit into his tongue until there was blood in his mouth, too.

“I-I….” Bruce gulped, almost inaudibly. “I did ‘t.” His...his voice sounded _happy,_ and Dick nearly threw up then and there. “F-for Jas’n. No--no one else h’s to die--” His words choked off again, and Dick could hear more blood coming up, but what chilled him even more than hearing it was seeing that Bruce was _smiling,_  almost wildly, for the first time he had in _weeks_ , even as his body half-seized in Dick’s lap, his hands useless and twitching near his chest.

Dick’s own hand clamped vise-like over his mouth to force himself not to throw up, and a stifled, quiet shriek escaped him without his consent. “You can’t you can’t, you--- _no!”_ Dick half-wailed, feeling all of eight again, watching blood pool out like a star of black emptiness. He felt a scrabbling at his wrist---one of Bruce’s trembling hands was clawing at his arm, trying to grab his hand, and he clamped his own hand around Bruce’s wrist. Bruce gagged, but it didn’t seem to clear his airway at all, and he sputtered again for air that wasn’t coming. Dick could hardly make out Bruce’s bright blue eyes in the dark, but they were open, and staring desperately at him with an almost feverish intensity. Pleading. _Don’t hate me. Please don’t. I’m sorry._

“No--” Dick was hyperventilating. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t---

He couldn’t think. Thought didn’t go into it. If he’d thought, he would have thought about the guards, about the FBI, about the police, about the manhunt and the masks and the consequences of being found out. But he was beyond caring. He shrieked, as loudly as he could manage---which wasn’t anywhere near as loud as he’d meant to be.

“Clark!” he screamed, his voice breaking. _“Clark!”_

Silence, that seemed frozen in shock at his outburst. He couldn’t stop himself from breaking down into an uncontrollable fit of sobbing.

Then, there was a concussive boom he could hear coming before it was full force. A violent gust of wind almost knocked him flat on his back, and as he rocked back forward, still clutching Bruce, his wild gaze landed on Superman, still in street clothes, hovering three feet off the floor, his hair blown back wildly.

“What the---” Clark said, half-out-of-breath and half-concerned, when his eyes landed on Bruce. “ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, instantly closing the distance between them. “Shit shit _shit.”_

Bruce was still breathing; if you could call it breathing. It was really more of a twitch at this point, and his eyes, though still open, were empty and glazed.

“Dickie,” Clark said, soft, like he was talking to a child. Dick’s head whipped up to meet his gaze. His eyes were kind, but there was a trace of his own panic in them, and Dick swallowed hard. “Dick. I need to take him, right now, or he’s going to die. I promise, I’ll save him if I can, but you _have_ to let me take him.”

In concept, Dick couldn’t comprehend the fact that Bruce was seconds from dying, or that he would have to let go of him and let Clark take him away and he might never see him alive again. Or that Bruce might die without him being there with him, just like Jason had; but physically, his hands immediately loosened around Bruce and Clark easily lifted Bruce’s heavy body into his arms and was off in an instant. Because Dick could always push past his fear when Bruce needed him to. It was his job.

For a few far-too-rapid heartbeats, Dick just sat there, in a veritable pool of Bruce’s blood, shaking and still half-sobbing almost automatically rather than out of any real, present emotion.

Then he heard pounding feet and voices shouting, close, and he lurched to his feet, swearing. He glanced frantically for the window he’d come in through---Clark had entered it, as well, and blown glass everywhere because he’d come in so fast that the window couldn’t take the drag---it was thirty feet away, and he ran for it. He leapt through without looking behind him, hoping against hope that the FBI, the cops, and the guards weren’t close enough to see him. He tucked and rolled out of pure habit, coming up on his feet and continuing to run. He wasn’t sure where he was going, other than away. The grass and sudden rises and holes were disappearing beneath his feet, the wind cold and harsh and whipping his hair into his face as he went. A sharp stitch tore through his side, his leg throbbed, and he staggered, but kept going. He glanced back once, desperate. He wasn’t being followed that he could see.

He finally came to a hill that looked to be part of a spillway for the island, the ground rising at an angle too sharp to be natural. He ran for the cover of an old, scraggly tree that was obviously flooded fairly often from the brown streaks climbing up the white bark, and collapsed underneath it, leg throbbing mercilessly and chest heaving painfully as he tried to gain back some of the air he’d lost over the last half-hour or so. He couldn’t quite calm the pounding of his heart, though. All he could think of was Bruce, all he could see when he closed his eyes was Bruce’s face, drained of color and covered with blood, and _smiling._

He shuddered, and suddenly realized how cold it was. The sweat drenching his body had evaporated while he was running, and now he was almost uncomfortably cold. He sat up and drew his knees into his chest, wrapping his arms around them in an attempt to warm up.

His comm buzzed, and he jumped. “Dick! The news is flipping out over that sonic boom, and so’s Dad. Was it Superman?”

“Yeah,” Dick gasped, still breathless.

Barbara swore. “Is he….was it that bad?” Her voice dipped as she spoke, almost into a whisper.

Dick felt tears clogging his throat again. “Yes,” he choked.

A crackle of static. “Dick…” Babs started, her voice pained. Another boom cut her off, and Dick’s head snapped up to see Clark rapidly descending towards him. “I’ve gotta go,” he stammered, scrambling to his feet. He didn’t hear Babs’ reply if she gave one. Clark slowed just enough to safely pick him up, and then shot off at a pace that nearly stole the air from Dick’s lungs yet again. He closed his eyes and held on and focused on breathing as best he could. In slowly, out slowly. In slowly, out slowly---

They were slowing again, and he cracked one eye open, surprised when he realized they were at Leslie’s clinic. He would have thought Clark would take Bruce to the hospital or the Watchtower, but Bruce’s insistence on protecting his identity was well-established, even in crisis. _Or he might not have been stable enough to even make it to the Watchtower,_ Dick realized with a chill. He expected Clark to put him down, but he didn’t, instead continuing to fly quicker than Dick could have ran, until they were inside and hurtling into a room, at which point Clark finally set him down on his feet. Dick staggered a step before managing to center himself. He immediately spun to look at Bruce---and froze.

His mentor…. _Bruce_...wasn’t stripped of his suit, only his cowl---which Dick had _left at the scene,_ he realized with a self-recriminating cringe---and his eyes were closed and his face was slack. There was a tube jammed down his throat, seemingly in a hurry, and Leslie was in a panicked rush attempting to switch attachments from a bag to a machine so she could keep working. An IV had been quickly placed in his arm---the suit had been raggedly cut at his elbow, and there were patches of gauze scattered across his body, but there was no pressure being put on them because Leslie was busy trying to keep him breathing. Dick registered it far too slowly, but when he saw the gauze he staggered across the room and pushed both hands down on the wad of gauze above Bruce’s lung. With this many wounds, it was difficult to tell which was the priority, but he figured Bruce had a sucking chest wound by the earlier suffocation and bleeding, so putting pressure on it and sealing it off was necessary if they wanted to have even a prayer of draining the fluid from his lung so he could breathe at all.

Leslie was swearing ferociously as she worked, which would have startled Dick had he not been so keyed-up as to be past the point of caring. “Damn you you fucking idiot---” she growled at Bruce’s limp body, finally connecting the tube from the ventilator to the apparatus in Bruce’s throat. She fumbled behind her with the machine to switch it on, and then spun to Dick. She thrust a utility knife at him. “Keep pressure with one hand and cut a hole in the suit,” she ordered. “If I don’t drain the blood there won’t be enough oxygen in the world to help him.”

Dick grabbed the knife and pressed his left hand down against the bullet hole, using his thumb to flick the knife out a little bit to cut through the suit. Alfred would be mad, he _hated_ having to patch the stupid thing---

 _“Alfred,”_ Dick realized, horrified. He’d _completely_ forgotten his promise….Bruce would want him here, _that_ was who he really needed---

“I’ve got him, Dick,” Clark said, and Dick whipped his head to the side, having almost forgotten Clark was there. “Take care of Bruce. I’ll get Alfred.” With that, Clark was off like a shot again.

Dick looked back as soon as Clark was gone, finally cutting a good-sized chunk out of Bruce’s armor. He flipped the blade broad-side and carefully pried upwards a little to get the severed piece out of the way, exposing pale, blood-stained flesh.

Leslie returned with a huge needle, a coil of tube and a bag, and Dick flicked the blade back in and set the knife on a nearby table, pushing both hands down on the gauze again. As he took the opportunity to look closer, it seemed like the wound in Bruce’s side was bleeding more than the chest wound, but he reminded himself of what he’d already gone over. Leslie had a bag of saline and one of blood hooked up already. Hopefully that would be enough to keep his heart going until they could address the bleeding in other areas. Bruce had hardly been breathing when Clark had taken him and even with the ventilator there were awful, wet rattles coming from his chest.

Leslie swabbed deftly at Bruce’s side and then tossed the wipe onto the floor, lifting the needle. Dick saw the bag had been set up on a stand to the side, and he closed his eyes and tried not to cringe at the sound that came from Leslie shoving the needle through Bruce’s chest wall. It was doubtful he was aware of any of it at this point, but still. He blinked his eyes back open to see dark red blood trickling down the tube to the bag. Leslie had drawn the syringe back and then attached the tube to suction blood from Bruce’s lung. Dick fought the urge to bite his tongue as the seconds ticked past because there was so _much_ of it, dark from lack of oxygen. But finally, _finally,_ the majority of it was drained, and Bruce’s lungs sounded a bit clearer, a bit less cloggy.

“How’s his pulse?” Leslie asked, not looking up from the tube. Dick fumbled to press his fingertips to Bruce’s throat, trying to focus. “Thready, fast.”

“Frankly, I’m almost surprised he hasn’t crashed yet,” Leslie said, adjusting the tube so it hung without any kinks and turning her attention to the wound in Bruce’s side. “It’s good, though. It means the fluid replacement’s working decently. But we’ll definitely have to---”

She was interrupted by the door slamming open with a bang again, and Dick barely had time to look up before Alfred was half across the room. Dick found he couldn’t meet Alfred’s eyes, or look at him at all, and he forced himself to look back down at the patch of Bruce’s armor and the bloody gauze he was putting pressure on. The expression on Alfred’s face, the tension in his whole body, the...the _pain_ in his eyes was too much for Dick to handle at the moment. It was rare enough that Alfred was so visibly rattled, and seeing it now would just bring Dick that much closer to breaking.

“What needs doing,” Alfred said, and Dick almost flinched. His voice didn’t falter, not a bit, but he knew Alfred’s hands were likely twitching with tension---he’d seen it before---and he knew the steel in that tone meant that Alfred was hell-bent on keeping Bruce alive, and anything or anyone that came between him and that goal would sorely regret it. It was good, to know someone so capable was that determined to save Bruce….but it was also more than a little intimidating, so Dick kept his head down, despite loving the old man as a grandfather and knowing beyond a doubt that Alfred would never hurt him.

“After his lung,” Leslie said, pushing Dick’s hands aside to press a three-way seal over the bullet hole, “my main concern is stopping the bleed in his side, as quickly as possible. I don’t have much of his blood and we can’t afford to waste it because he needs every drop.”

“Clark,” Alfred said, turning quickly to him as he hovered a bit behind, seemingly stunned, “I have a store of Master Bruce’s blood in the Cave, in the left wing of the freezer, all labeled. Master Thomas’ textbooks on gunshot trauma are on the fourth shelf down from the ceiling on the third shelf from the left in the west study.”

Clark nodded, seeming to have been drawn back to action by the thorough instructions. “I’ll get it and be back. Can you think of anything else, Dr. Thompkins?”

“No,” she said, not looking up while she pressed the plastic down. “If I do, I’ll have Alfred contact you.”

Clark nodded. “Understood. I’ll get it and be back.” With a lingering look at the prone form of his friend, he hurried off down the hall again.

Alfred crossed the room to the sink and yanked his bulletproof vest off, tossing it on the counter and washing his hands. Dick was watching, suddenly realizing how tired he was, when a sudden noise had his head snapping to the side. Leslie was probing the wound in Bruce’s side, and blood was leaking from the hole at a renewed pace, bright red. Bruce’s fingers were twitching on his stomach, clawing into the kevlar, his nails blue.

Dick’s gaze flew to Bruce’s face. His eyes were open to slits.

Oh hell, he was _awake._

“B,” Dick whispered, immediately scrambling over beside the head of the table and leaning down so he was nearly at eye level with Bruce. “We’re at Leslie’s. Alfred’s here and Clark’s coming.” He didn’t bother with any comforting platitudes. Bruce didn’t like those.

Bruce’s hand twitched again, his arm trembling slightly with tension. His lips---which were also tinged blue, Dick grimly noted---tensed and he seemed like he was struggling to swallow around the tube. Sweat was breaking out on his cheeks and neck, and Dick wasn’t quite sure what was going on until Bruce’s eyes flicked to his, and there were _tears_ shining in them, his brows drawn tightly together.

“Oh, B,” Dick whispered, and the words were wet with tears he hadn’t expected. He glanced down and quickly found Bruce’s hand, grabbing it and holding it tight. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Bruce squeezed his fingers once, shortly, and his eyes suddenly clenched shut, a few tears spilling out as he tensed.

Leslie swore quietly. “It looks like the bullet shattered from the impact with the kevlar. I’ll bet there’s at least one fragment in or near an artery, if not more.” She glanced at Bruce’s face, then at the monitors she’d apparently hooked up at some point---Dick couldn’t remember seeing her do it---glanced back down. “The chest tube’s in. We should take him off the vent, at least until after he’s sedated. It’s too risky to leave it in for that.”

Dick nodded, and tried to pull back, meaning to get out of her way, but couldn’t because Bruce wasn’t letting his hand go. In fact, he was clinging to it so hard his knuckles were white. “B--” he started to say, but stopped when Leslie shot him a look and grabbed her supplies, moving around to the other side of the table. Bruce’s fingers tangled with Dick’s and he held even tighter.

“Okay,” Dick sighed out through his nose, accepting that he was going to be stuck for the moment. He felt a hand pat his shoulder and there was a rumble as a chair was pushed up behind him. He shot a grateful glance back at Alfred and sat down, rolling the chair with his foot so he was as much out of the way as he could be.

Leslie approached the bed with a suctioner, and Alfred glanced at the monitors and switched the machine off, disconnecting the end of the tube. Leslie flicked the suctioner on and siphoned out the tube, then moved up to the head of the bed. Dick dropped his gaze to Bruce’s hand, unwilling to watch. Bruce’s fingernails were jagged and long, and would look wrong even without the added detail of their dull blue color. By the faintly-trembling tension in his fingers, he would probably like to be digging those nails into something at the moment, but instead he was just gripping Dick’s fingers tightly. The scars knitted through his flesh were starkly visible and there was still dried blood caking his hands, brown and crusty under his nails, contrasting sharply with how chalk-white his skin was. Dick brought his other hand up to wrap around Bruce’s, in an attempt to warm it after suddenly realizing how cold it was. He clenched his eyes shut when Bruce gagged, and didn’t open them again until the coughs were subsiding into hoarse gulps. He finally worked up the courage to look. Alfred and Leslie were already hard at work prepping for surgery. An oxygen mask had quickly taken the place of the tube. Bruce’s eyes were half-open and rolling back into his skull, drifting back down sluggishly, covering the room without really seeming to see any of it.

There was a sudden thud, and Dick whipped his head up just in time to see Clark striding in the door, on foot this time. He was carrying three bags of Bruce’s blood tucked under his arm. He quickly handed them off to Leslie before joining Alfred, who was measuring out sedatives to dose Bruce for surgery.

“Is that enough…?” Clark asked cautiously, as Alfred finished loading the syringe and tossed the empty bottle into the trash.

“It will have to be,” Alfred responded near-shortly, crossing the room to Bruce’s side and taking his left hand to insert a second IV. “He doesn’t react well to sedatives under normal circumstances.” He finished placing the tube and carefully inserted the syringe into the end and delivered the dosage, taking a step back but watching carefully.

For a dozen seconds, nothing seemed to change. Bruce’s eyes were still half-lidded and fluttering, breaths still coming jagged and gulping, but mostly steady. The first sign that something was wrong was when Bruce suddenly gripped Dick’s fingers tightly again, and then in rapid succession his face pinched up and he clawed at the oxygen mask clumsily before rolling onto his side and gagging. Alfred had to hurry to yank the mask off before he retched onto the floor, his shoulders visibly shaking even under the kevlar he still wore. It seemed to go on forever and Dick was pulled back away from Bruce, cringing with his eyes closed at the noise. Finally, the gags subsided and Dick blinked his burning eyes back open. Bruce had gone limp, still panting from exertion and pain, and he made no move to shift position. Alfred, still standing next to the bed, grasped Bruce’s upper arm gently and began to roll him onto his back. Dick reached over and took his own hold on Bruce once he realized, and they got him onto his back and settled on the gurney. Bruce’s head lolled against the bed once before stilling. His eyes were bloodshot and distant, not quite lining up right. His whole body was faintly shaking. Clark tossed Alfred a rag, and the older man caught it and carefully wiped Bruce’s face with it, cleaning the mess from his mouth before slipping the oxygen mask back on. Dick wasn’t sure if Bruce was conscious at all, until his hand twitched towards him again, and he grabbed it quickly. “I’m sorry, Bruce,” he whispered hoarsely, tears leaking from his eyes again.

Bruce groaned. It was long and low and so pained that Dick’s heart skipped. He reached over and pushed Bruce’s hair back with his free hand, unsure of what to do, words tumbling out of him uncontrollably. “T-Tell me how I can help, B. Anything you want. I’ll get the others to get it for you. Anything at all.”

Bruce’s red eyes dully drifted to meet Dick’s, and his features were screwed up in pain, breaths stuttering. He opened his mouth but didn’t seem to have the strength to do anything but breathe the first couple tries. But the entire time his eyes were fixed on Dick’s, like he was memorizing them. Like he wanted to take him up on his offer. But there was a despair there that Dick had never seen before, a brokenness beyond anything he’d ever before shown. A complete and utter hopelessness.

“I-I---” Bruce wheezed finally, barely more than an exhale. His eyes bore into Dick’s. Tears welled in them. His already-shaking voice broke into a quiet half-wail. “I want _Jason_.”

Dick froze. He couldn’t move if he tried. He was watching but distant when Bruce’s eyes finally closed, the tension seeping from his body until his hand slackened around Dick’s, and then there were firm hands on his shoulders gently tugging him back. “Richard, come with me,” a vaguely-familiar voice said from very far away, but Dick didn’t really register it. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Bruce in the gurney, nearly blocked from view by Leslie and Alfred and now Clark, still and non-reacting as Leslie made a deep incision into his side with a scalpel.

And then a door was slamming shut and Dick shut down completely. He didn’t resist as he was led through the empty hallways in Leslie’s clinic, into an inner break room with a sink in one side and several tables with chairs in the other. He was leaned up against the counter and those hands carefully guided his down into the sink and turned the water on lukewarm. The water that poured down beneath his wrists was immediately stained red and he swallowed hard, nauseated.

The hands disappeared, and behind him he heard faint scraping sounds. Then the hands were back, and he was being eased down into a chair. A head curtained by long, dark hair leaned over and the hands gently scrubbed at his gloves to remove the blood with practiced surety.

“Diana,” Dick blurted, ashamed to have taken so long to acknowledge her presence---let alone realized it was her---relieved to have a familiar and kind face nearby, and nonsensically afraid for her to see him in this state, let alone Bruce.

She smiled at him with genuine relief, despite the twinge of pain showcased in the crease between her brows. “Hello, Richard.”

“Did…” Dick stammered, as she turned the sink off and tore off a length of paper towels to pat his gloves dry. “Did...does the League know? Is that why you’re--?”

“No,” Diana assured him, stripping off his cleaned gloves and placing them neatly on the counter before producing another paper towel, which she knelt to carefully draw across his face. “Clark contacted me while he was at the Manor.”

It made sense. Dick nodded, trying not to squirm while Diana continued cleaning him up. Clark would call their other closest friend at a time like this, because he knew Bruce wouldn’t. For a beat, the two of them sat silently while Diana finished cleaning him up. Finally, she finished, threw away the paper towel, walked over to one of the tables, and grabbed a chair for herself. She brought it back and sat it down beside his, and then faced him.

“What happened, Richard?”

Dick swallowed, unsure of where to begin. “He...Bruce...I’d gone to Jason’s school…”

And with that, the entire story poured out, half-hysterical and more than once choked through dry sobs. Diana listened silently and attentively the whole time, and by the end of it, when Dick had trailed off into shaky gulps in a pointless attempt to calm himself down, there were tears standing in her dark eyes, as well.

Dick didn’t have much of a chance to recover, however, because his comm suddenly buzzed, and he flicked it on by reflex despite being uncertain as to who it was. A stab of panic skewed through him at the thought that it might be Alfred, and he tensed up again as he answered, “Yes?”

“Dick,” Babs’ voice came across urgently. “I’m so sorry, I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen---my dad’s headed there, you have to---”

Dick tuned out the rest of it after that sentence. When he raised his eyes he saw that Diana had heard every word. The line of her jaw clenched and her wet eyes hardened. She stood from her chair and drew herself up to her full, imposing height, and spun on her heel and marched out into the hall. Dick followed, scrabbling to grab his mask and shove it back on as he went towards the clinic’s alley door.

Diana threw the door open and crossed the fire escape with confident stride, pausing at the end of the staircase and folding her arms across her chest, planting her feet. Dick stepped up behind her, feeling oddly like he was hiding; he supposed he could hardly help it when Diana dwarfed him by a good six inches even without heels.

Within a few minutes, Dick could hear the roar of an approaching car, and he swallowed hard, steeling himself for whatever was coming. At least he didn’t hear any sirens; Jim had the sense to keep this between them, at least for the time being.

A lone grey conversion pulled into the alley and screeched to a stop. The door banged open almost instantly and Jim climbed out, stalking towards the staircase. Dick wasn’t sure if he was more impressed or shocked at Jim for not even hesitating at the sight of Diana; because there was no way he could possibly have missed her presence or her stance.

“Let me through, Ms. Prince,” Jim ordered, not quite barking at Diana but also not surrendering an inch. “I know you three are vigilantes, but you don’t completely disregard police business, and this is definitely part of it.”

“He can’t answer any questions or give you any statements,” Diana responded coldly, without a hint of give in her voice. “He’s sedated and being operated on as we speak. Your presence will only be a hindrance and an annoyance for an ex-military who happens to be his surrogate father, a woman who runs a free clinic in a bad neighborhood in Gotham, and the world’s most powerful being who is also his best friend. If you wish to get on any of their unfavorable sides, I would gladly stand aside and let you, merely for the entertainment value. But I will not, because I will not allow you to take their attention away from saving his life for even a second.”

“I’m not here to arrest him!” Jim growled hotly, and Diana dipped her chin in a look that Dick was very glad he was not on the receiving end of. “Then why, pray tell, are you here?”

“I just want to know what the hell happened,” Jim said defensively. “We’ve had an understanding for a good decade now that he keeps to mild property damage and moderate injury and we help each other because I had no choice. But this is a whole other---”

“And do you have any evidence that he’s actually responsible for what happened to your ‘Joker’?” Diana queried. “Any footage of the incident, by chance? Which you can decidedly prove is him? And decidedly prove was premeditated and done not out of self-defense but out of murderous intent? He’s not even dead. Which is more than anyone in this situation deserves, given the circumstances.”

Jim bristled, and Dick flinched at the half-roar. “My daughter is lying in a hospital bed and paralyzed for _life_ because of that monster!”

“And Bruce’s child is _dead."_  Diana replied icily.

Silence. Dick bit into his lip hard enough to draw blood.

A huff of air left Jim in a defeated gust. “I...what do you want? What am I supposed to tell them?”

“As if they need an answer,” Diana said derisively. “What is there to tell? Any number of attempted murders occur at Arkham weekly. Say one of his enemies finally tired of him. Say you don’t know, since you in fact have no presentable evidence. Say it was likely a long-overdue revenge attack in retaliation for one of the many murders. The media frenzy will be over in less than a week.”

“And the power vacuum?” Jim challenged.

“Perhaps, if Bruce lives, you may beg him for his assistance.” Diana drew her head up again. Dick swallowed at the reminder. Diana glanced back at him in concern, and Jim leaned on his toes to see what she was doing. Upon seeing Dick, his face fell.

“Dick, I…” he trailed off, looking helpless. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things worse for you, I just…I’m sorry.”

Dick nodded silently, dropping his gaze to the metal grate. “I know,” he said quietly. His voice hardened without any conscious effort on his part. “But sorry won’t bring my brother back. Or make Bruce pull through.”  

He didn’t glance up to see Jim’s reaction, but there was a long beat before a response of, “....That’s fair,” finally came, low and tinged with regret. “I’ll...I’ll leave you to it.” Dick didn’t look up at the clanging footfalls as he turned on the stairs, didn’t respond when he called up, “But do let me know? When...when you know?”

Diana nodded slightly, silent.

“I’m sorry, Dick. I know it doesn’t fix it, but I am sorry.”

Dick didn’t feel safe to move again until Gordon’s footsteps faded down the stairs and the roar of his car engine disappeared down the alley. Diana dropped her arms from her chest back to her sides, relieved. “Thank the gods he was willing to listen to reason.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed quietly, gazing off down the alley. Diana seemed to understand his sudden inability to form words, and draped a protective arm around his shoulder as she guided him back inside, locking the door behind them.

Diana led him back into the breakroom, and stood at the doorway while he went in and collapsed at the table, laying his head on his arms. When she spoke, her voice was hesitant. “Will you be alright on your own? While I go and see if I can provide any assistance?”

“I’ll be fine, Diana,” he replied, mustering as much surety as he could feasibly put in his voice, while not moving. He managed to raise his head and give her a doubtlessly weak grin that was mostly obscured by his messy hair falling into his face. “Go on. I’ll just...wait here.”

Diana nodded. “Of course. If you need me, contact Alfred.” With that, she turned and headed off down the hall.

As soon as she was gone, Dick laid his head back down on the table. He planned on staying that way for a long while; until his comm buzzed yet again. “Yes?” he answered, and there was the shortness in his voice again.

“Dick,” Babs’ voice sounded….wrong. All sorts of wrong. More wrong than it had even earlier. “I’m...I’m sorry, I just…”

“....Babs.” He ventured. “What is it?”

She took a shaky breath across the line. “It was my fault my dad came over there. I….I was going through the security footage for him….he asked me….”

Dick felt a chill. “I thought the cameras were disabled.”

“They were. In the room, and in the hall. But….I found….I found one in the cell across from Joker’s that Br--that B must have. Um. Missed.”

That was enough of a bad sign, already. Bruce was so thorough that nothing usually got by him. At best, he’d neglected the final camera out of ignorance of its existence. At worst, he’d ignored it because he no longer cared. “Is it conclusive evi---?”

“No, no,” Babs broke in before he could finish. “He’s never unmasked, and it’s from a bad angle and not great quality. But….”

“But _what_?” Dick groaned, beginning to be exasperated in his half-hysterical state. This day seemed like a never-ending dose of it.

“I….” Another long pause. “I don’t want to describe this to you over a line, but….I also don’t particularly want you to _see_ it.”

Dick swallowed. “It can’t be any worse than...than anything _else_ I’ve seen today…?”

A defeated sigh, like Babs expected that response. “I’m patching it through.”

Sure enough, within a couple seconds his wrist communicator beeped. He glanced down at the blinking link with more than a little dread. Against his better judgement, he disconnected the line with Babs, and then pressed the link.

There wasn’t really any ceremony. Leave it to Babs to crop out everything but the vitally necessary bit. Bruce instantly cut into the frame from the right side of the hall and went straight for Joker’s cell door, kicking it in and seizing Joker, who was seated as usual at his dumb little card table in his straightjacket. He threw him against the far wall with enough force to crack the drywall, and probably some of Joker’s ribs.

Joker sat up, after a dazed moment where he squirmed against the wall, and his lips moved. There was no sound in the video, but within a split second Bruce was throwing him across the room again, face-first into the opposite wall. Dick swallowed, feeling guilt burning in his stomach for how much he was _enjoying_ seeing this, how _satisfying_ it was to watch Joker slump to the ground and push himself back up shakily, blood streaming from his nose.

Then Joker was shakily standing, but his hand was going to his waistband and Dick started even though he knew it was over. That was an obvious tell for a weapon.

Bruce didn’t instantly disarm him. Joker pulled the gun and pointed it at Bruce.

Bruce still didn’t disarm him. He didn’t react. He didn’t even act like he _saw_ it, didn’t even act like it was there. He took two huge, rapid strides towards Joker, and Joker backed away, against the wall, pointing the gun at Bruce--at Bruce’s _head_ \---with both hands. Bruce still didn’t acknowledge the gun.

There was a long pause where Dick thought maybe, _maybe_ Bruce said something, and maybe Joker said something back, but he couldn’t make out what; it was too pixelated.

Too suddenly to register, Bruce was charging forward, and the gun fired, hit his side. He didn’t falter a bit, knocked Joker back onto the floor; Joker fired three more times. Bruce took every single bullet without flinching, without doubling over, without pain or hesitation.

Then he was on the floor, pinning Joker there, and Joker was still pointing the gun. His aim had been thrown off by the sudden force of Bruce’s attack, but now it was lowered at Bruce’s head again. Dick was confused. Why hadn’t Joker done it? Why hadn’t he killed him right then?

Then Bruce moved for the gun, grabbed Joker’s wrist and twisted it until his grasp broke and then kept twisting until his hand did, too, and his wrist. He threw Joker back onto the floor, and then rammed his foot down on his neck. Once, twice, three times. Dick began to lose count as the video went on, as Bruce’s foot rammed down over and over and _over,_ until he could see something _break_ in Joker’s posture on the floor, with a finality. He rolled slightly from the force of one of Bruce’s kicks, but otherwise was still. His arms moved with the inertia, but had no power of their own. And Dick could see, even on the shitty recording, that Joker knew. In his face, he could see the sudden, utter terror.

Some part of him responded, _Good,_ with a burning satisfaction, and he didn’t have it in him to fight it much.

Bruce straightened for a second, in the video. Or tried to---he didn’t manage to get very far before the sudden pain must have hit him; he swayed suddenly, a hand going to his side by reflex. He glanced down for a split second, and then raised his head again, glancing around. He staggered out of the cell, stepping on Joker as he went. Joker screamed silently at him. Bruce didn’t look back.

Dick stared. His wrist communicator eventually dimmed the screen because he couldn’t bring himself to turn it off, to delete the file like he ought to, to do anything other than sit and take in what he’d just seen.

Bruce wasn’t even going to try to live through that encounter. He was fully ready for Joker to kill him; the same way his parents had been killed, no less.

He’d suspected when Bruce had run off that he was going to do something horrible….but _this?_

He would have gone off and died there in that warehouse. He could have been there for years before anyone figured it out. Long enough that Dick and Alfred might have been alright.

Alright. _Alright._ What the fucking _fuck_ was Bruce _thinking?_   _Was_ he thinking? Dick would never leave Alfred, and he knew the feeling was mutual, but holy _hell,_ to suppose either of them would be any estimation of _alright_ if Bruce had committed suicide-by-Joker was about the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, and he’d heard some pretty ridiculous things.

He knew it was because of Jason. He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about dying in his life, and he’d be lying if he said he’d never thought of...at least _allowing_ it to happen. Not... _causing_ it, never causing it, but allowing it….if only because he was so _tired_ sometimes. Sometimes it sounded so enticing to go to sleep after patrol one night and never wake up. To go out one night and not come back, and therefore not have to face another day of it.

But he didn’t. Because he knew the cost for the people he loved. He’d lived through loss himself, and while the loss of a parent was hell, the loss of a child was worse. He’d known that even before he’d _truly_ known it.

He would never do something like that to Bruce.

So why the hell would Bruce do it to him?

____

 

“Richard,” Diana’s grave tone woke him before her hand lightly shaking his shoulder did, and Dick sat bolt upright from where he had apparently somehow managed to fall asleep face down on his elbow on the table in the breakroom. His eyes felt itchy and they burned as he blinked rapidly. Clark was walking through the door. He looked exhausted in every sense of the word, shoulders slumped, face haggard. His hands were bright red, freshly scrubbed.

Dick was wide awake now, hands pressed flat and rigid on the table before him as he stared at Clark expectantly.

“He’s alive,” Clark sighed. “We managed to get the bleeding mostly contained...Leslie’s hoping it’ll ease off completely here in the next couple hours. In the meantime we’ve got blood and antibiotics going in. Leslie wants us to move him to the Manor as soon as possible for his safety, but not until he’s stable enough that it won’t be risking his life. So it’s waiting to see if his vitals stabilize in the next several hours. Cause right now,” Clark frowned, “they’re not looking good.”

Dick nodded silently, eyes on the tabletop. “Can…” he swallowed, finally raising his gaze and trying his damndest not to react to the sympathy in Clark’s eyes. “Can I see him?”

Clark nodded. “Sure. Alfred and Leslie are still in there with him.”

Dick got up from the table and headed back down the hallway without another word. Diana and Clark followed in his wake.

Even though it made no difference, Dick pushed the door open quietly. Leslie was busy loading a bunch of bloodstained scrubs and aprons into the laundry chute, while Alfred stood beside Bruce’s bed, gently smoothing his damp, tangled hair with a wrinkled hand.

Dick swallowed, pausing a couple steps into the room, feeling like he was intruding. He felt Clark and Diana hesitating behind him, but couldn’t take another step.

Alfred glanced up. His face grew impossibly sadder. “Master Richard,” he said, voice soft. “Come in.”

Obediently, Dick took a couple steps closer to Alfred and Bruce. A glance up at the high windows in the clinic revealed that it was dark outside, and Dick realized it must be some early hour of the morning by this point. His throat was suddenly very dry at the thought of how long they must have been working on Bruce.

He took another couple steps closer, trying to avoid looking at Bruce but also wanting nothing more than to stare. He couldn’t look at Alfred, either, though. He fixed his eyes on the third button on Alfred’s plain black button-up.

“Master Dick,” Alfred said quietly, and Dick glanced up at him for a short moment before dropping his gaze resolutely again, because he was crying and why couldn’t he stop.

“Come now,” and Alfred’s other hand was squeezing his shoulder, then moving to tip his chin up. He gave Dick a slight, fond smile as he brushed away a tear with his thumb. Dick took a deep breath and lightly pulled back, finally glancing down at Bruce.

He still didn’t look good; but it was a different kind of bad compared to when he’d last seen him. At least he didn’t look like he was in pain anymore; his eyes were shut loosely, head slightly to the side, skin pale. His hands were slack at his sides, the IV line running across his arm a shocking contrast of bright red against washed-out grey. A fogged oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose. He wasn’t dead; he was just quiet. And still. And looking at him, insanely, the only thing Dick felt keenly was anger. And it was getting worse by the second.

“Alfred,” he said, low but fierce. “I….could you leave the room? Please?”

Alfred glanced at him sharply, startled. “Master Richard…?”

“Clark and Diana too, please.” Dick forced out. He knew they were staring at him, but he couldn’t summon the energy to care, and he sure as hell couldn’t summon the energy to repress. “I know, I’m sorry, I swear I’ll explain but….please just…. _please."_

There was another unbearably long moment of exchanged stares between the adults, and then Dick heard the door open. He fixed his eyes downwards, and so caught the hesitance with which Alfred pulled his hand from Bruce’s forehead. That made hot shame wash through him, but not enough to shake his resolve. Alfred’s steps followed Clark and Diana’s out, and Leslie had disappeared who knew where. The door shut with an echoing thud. There wasn’t a sound in the room beside Dick’s loud, agitated breaths.

“How...could you.” He hissed through his teeth. Bruce didn’t move; _of course he didn’t,_ he was practically comatose. He was practically _dead,_ because he didn’t give enough of a damn to stay alive. “How could you fucking----” He shoved a hand through his hair, stalking towards the wall and pivoting. “What did you think was gonna fucking happen after doing this, you utter….you utter, selfish _bastard!_ ”

He hadn’t meant to scream, really. It was just sort of...happening, as he paced the room frantically, like it was shrinking in on him. Any second now it would swallow Bruce and leave him all alone. Again.

“You think this is acceptable? You think...you think, I’ll _understand!?”_ His voice was breaking, and he didn’t care. “You think it doesn’t _matter!?_ You think I’m big enough to handle myself without you? Well I’m fucking not! Just...just because I left doesn’t mean I’m alright alone! Just because I wanted my own life doesn’t mean I’ll never need you again! You think it’s fine to just….sit the fuck back and die now!? I don’t need you and Jason’s dead so who the fuck _cares?”_

There was pounding on the door for a split second, which broke off near-instantly. Dick completely ignored it.

“How the hell can you be so damned observant and still never see _a fucking thing!”_ Okay, so he was full-out screaming now. Lucky he was in an alley in Gotham where screams were quite frequent and the asshole he was screaming at was too far gone to hear a word of it. “You...you make me want to feel sorry for you. _You._ Well, I won’t be! I wouldn’t do this to you! I’d live for you! I loved him, too---and what, oh well? Not as much as you did? Maybe! That doesn’t mean---” he kicked the chair across the room. “That doesn’t--”

He dropped onto his hands and knees on the floor in the middle of the room. He didn’t have air for any more. There were tears burning down his cheeks, itching on his neck. He hung there, gasping to try and get air that didn’t seem to want to come back. His own gasps were unbearably loud in his ears. He couldn’t hear anything else. Was Bruce still breathing? Had he died somehow in the middle of that diatribe and Dick hadn’t noticed through his own screams?

He crawled the rest of the distance to the bed. Getting up would take too much effort, and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t drop right back down. He pulled himself up on the bedframe and reached for Bruce’s hand. He almost got tangled in the IV, finally found it and pulled himself up to his knees. He drew Bruce’s hand in and dropped his head on top of it and wept.

Bruce didn’t move.

 

____

 

It was the next afternoon before Leslie was satisfied that they could move Bruce. Clark took Alfred and Diana back to the Manor to get the van. Dick sat beside Bruce. He was silent this time. Just staring. It was probably creepy and more than a little pathetic, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know where else to be. Leslie left him alone.

He wandered along faithfully while Clark and Leslie guided the gurney down the ramp to the waiting van. He stood out of the way while Alfred and Diana helped gently lift Bruce into the back of the van. He climbed in without a word when they were finished, and closing the back doors. He didn’t respond to Leslie’s sympathetic pat on his shoulder while he passed her. He strapped himself in across from Clark, who eyed him awkwardly and sadly. He’d realized last night, when the others had hesitantly filed back in, that Clark had heard every word of it. The others probably got the gist, but Clark had this pained look when Dick accidentally met his gaze. He probably wanted to say something. Defend his best friend, try to help Dick through this. He thought maybe he finally understood why Superman had the tendency to annoy Bruce, no matter how much he liked him.

The drive home was anticlimactically calm. They made it to the Cave entrance in record time, and unloaded Bruce without a problem. Alfred and Clark set to work removing his armor and replacing it with softer clothes. Dick half-heartedly stripped his own armor. Diana made him put on a new leg brace. She wound up fastening the stupid thing on herself, while he sat on one of the benches. At any other time he would have been embarrassed and ashamed of himself for being such a brat. Now he couldn’t care if he tried.

They loaded Bruce’s gurney into the freight elevator to bring him upstairs. Alfred wanted him nearby in the house, and didn’t want to keep him in the Cave, for whatever reason. Dick didn’t question. He just pressed in the corner with the others while the elevator climbed far too slowly.

Clark and Alfred wheeled the gurney into the windowless inner room Alfred had prepared earlier. They set to work hooking up new units of blood and saline and antibiotics and setting up machinery.

Diana stood in the hall, watching the entire enterprise sorrowfully. Dick stood behind her, empty.

The doorbell rang.

Diana tensed. Dick didn’t move, but arched an eyebrow.

Diana spun on her heel. Dick heard her heels clicking across the hardwood. There was a long pause, and then the latch clicked.

“Yes--?”

She was cut off by light footsteps sprinting frantically into the house. “Is he alive!?” a breathless voice gasped. A young voice.

Dick turned, staring. A boy; younger than Jason, but similar-looking in dark hair and light eyes, stood in their foyer. “Is Batman alive?” He demanded again, voice almost gone from panting.

“Who are you?” Dick blurted before he could really figure out how to respond to this development.

“Tim Drake. Is Batman alive?”

Dick opened his mouth. He couldn’t form a reply to save his life.

“Listen to me, child,” Diana said, with a deadly ice in her tone that scared even Dick. She clamped a firm hand on the boy’s upper arm, and his face went white even as his head whipped to the side to face her. “If you mean him any harm---”

“I don’t!” The boy exclaimed. “I’ve----it’s because Robin’s dead, isn’t it?”

That made Dick stride forward. “What do you know about Robin?” He demanded heatedly.

The boy’s--- _Tim’s_ \---face went even paler, if that was possible, when he saw Dick. “I just….I saw you! When you were...when you were a Flying Grayson. I knew you were Robin because--because of your move! The sommersault! And I knew when you weren’t...you anymore, and that could only mean there was a new Robin! And that...coincided with Bruce Wayne adopting Jason Todd, so it wasn’t…..exactly _that_ hard to figure it out…” he trailed off awkwardly, glancing back and forth rapidly from Diana and Dick, gauging their likeliness to be angry at the remark. When neither of them spoke, he went on, “I knew about….about Robin because he disappeared, and then Batman became….different. And I knew about Joker because everyone’s been talking about it for the past two days. I just...I just had to know if he was alive. The cops didn’t find him, so I figured you would be back here at some point.”

He finally glanced directly at Dick, pleading. “I’m very sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble, and I’m really, really sorry about Robin, but please. Is Batman alive?”

Dick considered the boy for a long moment. “Yes,” he finally said. “Unfortunately.”

Tim’s face fell. He glanced at Diana, as if for answers, but then rapidly glanced back at Dick when there seemed to be none offered. “What---?” he began hesitantly.

Dick turned and mounted the stairs.

 

___

 

The Wayne Family Cemetery had been started in the 1800s, before there was a city where Gotham stood. The relatives who filled its ground were numerous, from direct ancestors to cousins, who died young and old, of childbirth and war, of age and of youthful inexperience. It grew ever larger throughout the years; space was no issue and there would never be a shortage of dead. It was nearer to the original site of the first homestead, out of view of the newer house. It was, traditionally, faced toward the east, pointed away from the house, which was separated by a hill.

Which was why there was no one around to see when the newly-placed red dirt above Jason Todd’s fresh grave was jostled and shook tiny particles into the air for hours, until finally, sending splinters of wood flying with the dust, a foot broke through, and then a hand.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr if you wanna come yell at me: autumnhobbit.tumblr.com


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